by Cynthia Hand
Don’t beat yourself up, Christian says in my head. I sit up and glance at the window, and of course he’s there, sitting in his normal spot.
I messed things up for you too, I remind him.
He shakes his head. No, you didn’t. You just changed things.
I go to the window and open it, step outside into the cool night air. It feels like summer now, a kind of shift in the way the night feels, the way it smells.
“You’ve got to stay out of my head,” I say as I hunker down awkwardly next to Christian.
I’m still in my mom’s nice black pumps. My toes hurt. “It can’t be very fun for you, always finding out my deep dark secrets.”
He shrugs. “They’re not so dark.”
I give him a hard look. “My life is a soap opera.”
“A really, really addictive soap opera,” he says. Then he puts his arm around my shoulders and draws me into him. And I let him. I close my eyes.
“Why do you want me, Christian? I’m hopelessly screwed up.”
“We’re all screwed up. And you look so cute while you’re doing it.”
“Stop.”
The back of my neck feels hot where his breath is touching me, stirring the wisps of my hair that managed to escape my braid. “Thank you,” I say. We sit there for a while, not talking.
An owl hoots in the distance. And suddenly, miraculously, there are tears in my eyes.
“I miss my mom,” I choke out.
Christian’s arms tighten around me. I lean my head onto his shoulder and cry and cry, my body shuddering with sobs. It’s one of those loud, probably unattractive kind of sobfests, the kind where your nose runs and your eyes get all huge and swollen and your whole face becomes this messy pink swampland, but I don’t care. Christian holds me, and I cry. The ache empties itself out on his T-shirt, leaving me lighter, a good emptiness this time, like if I tried I might be light enough to fly.
Chapter 21
High Countries
At graduation all the girls have to wear white robes and the boys wear black. When the band plays “Pomp and Circumstance” we file two by two into the gym at Jackson Hole High School, which is filled with chattering, cheering, frantic-picture-taking friends and relatives. But it’s hard to look up into the bleachers and not see Mom. Or Jeffrey, even. The police showed up at our house the next day to question him. This time they even brought a warrant. But he wasn’t there. All we found in his room were a bunch of clothes and toiletries missing — and here I’d believed that lie he’d fed me as I watched him pack it up that night — and a single yellow Post-it stuck to his window.
Don’t look for me, it read.
He didn’t even take his truck. We’ve been frantically searching for him for days, but there’s not a trace of where he might have gone. He’s just gone.
I spot Dad in the audience next to Billy. He gives me a thumbs-up. I smile, try to look happy. I am graduating, after all. It’s a big deal.
When someone dies in the movies, there’s always that scene where the main character stands in the dead person’s closet and fingers the sleeve of the favorite shirt, the one she remembers from so many happy moments. That was me, this morning. I went into Mom’s closet for this white eyelet dress she used to love. I thought I’d wear it, under my gown. That way, maybe a part of her would be there. Sentimental, I know.
In the movies, the main character always presses her face in to get a whiff of that last, lingering hint of the person’s smell. And then she cries.
I wish I didn’t know this, how real those scenes are, how unbelievable it was in that moment to stand there looking at all the dead can leave behind. How can the shoes still be here? I thought. How can the clothes survive, when the person did not? I found a hair on the shoulder of a flannel shirt and held it gently between my thumb and forefinger, this hair that was once attached to a person I loved so much. I held it for a long time, unsure of what to do with it, and then I finally let it go. I let it float away.
It hurt.
But right now she’s with me, her vanilla perfume rising off the fabric, and somehow it makes me feel stronger.
This is officially torture, Christian says in my head. How many speeches are there?
I consult my trusty program.
Four.
Mental groan.
But we get to cheer for Angela, I remind him. Angel Club sticks together, right?
Like I said. Torture.
I turn slightly and cast a subtle glance in his direction. He’s sitting a couple rows behind me, right next to Ava Peters. Just down the row from him, Kay Patterson smirks at me.
I know, I know, I think. I’m still looking at him.
He lifts his eyebrows.
Never mind, I tell him.
One speech ends and it’s time for Angela. The principal announces her as the class valedictorian. One of Jackson Hole High’s best and brightest stars. One of the three students who will be attending Stanford University in the fall.
Applause, applause.
Stanford must be lowering its standards, remarks Christian.
I know. Wait, did he say three students?
I think so.
So who’s lucky number three?
No answer.
I turn around to look at him again.
No.
He grins.
Now I get it, I tell him. You’re stalking me.
Quiet now. Angela’s about to talk.
I shift my attention back to the podium, where Angela stands stiffly, a stack of note cards in front of her. She pushes her glasses up on her nose.
When did Angela get glasses? Christian asks.
She’s playing Studious Straight-A Angela today, I answer. The glasses are her costume.
O-kay.
Angela clears her throat lightly. She really is nervous, I can tell. All these eyes on her. All this attention, when she’s usually the one in the corner with the book. She looks at me. I smile in what I hope is an encouraging way.
“I know how these speeches typically go,” she begins. “I’m supposed to get up here and talk about the future. How great it will be, how we’ll all pursue our dreams and make something of ourselves. Maybe I should read a children’s book about the places we’ll go, and talk about how bright our futures are, out there, waiting for us. That’s inspirational, right?” Murmuring from the crowd.
Uh-oh, says Christian.
I know what he means. It sounds like there might be a very good chance that Angela’s going to pull one of those anti-inspirational graduation speeches, the kind that calls the school cheerleader a vapid Barbie doll or a favorite teacher a creepy perv.
Angela glances down at her cards.
Don’t do it, I think.
“I know that when I think about my future, I’m usually overwhelmed, knowing how much will be expected of me. I know the odds are that I’ll fail many of the things I try. And it’s a big deal. What if I figure out what my purpose is, my reason for being on this planet, only to fall short? What if I don’t pass the test?”
She looks at me again. I hold my breath. One corner of her mouth lifts — she’s laughing at me. Then she goes back to serious.
“But then I think about what I’ve learned here in the last year, and I don’t mean in my classes, but what I’ve learned from watching my friends face their futures and search for their purposes. I’ve learned that a storm isn’t always just bad weather, and a fire can be the start of something new. I’ve found out that there are a lot more shades of gray in this world than I ever knew about. I’ve learned that sometimes, when you’re afraid but you keep on moving forward, that’s the biggest kind of courage there is. And finally, I’ve learned that life isn’t really about failure and success. It’s about being present, in the moment when big things happen, when everything changes, including yourself. So I would tell us, no matter how bright we think our futures are, it doesn’t matter. Whether we go off to some fancy university or stay home and work.
That do
esn’t define us. Our purpose on this earth is not a single event, an accomplishment we can check off a list. There is no test. No passing or failing. There’s only us, each moment shaping who we are, into what we will become. So I say forget about the future. Pay attention to now.
This moment right now. Let go of expectations. Just be. Then you are free to become something great.”
She’s done. The crowd claps and claps, mostly I think because her speech was pretty short. It’s in one ear and out the other for most of us at this point. But not for me. I heard her loud and clear.
“Okay, that was, I have to say, about the cheesiest thing I ever heard in my life,” I say to Angela as we’re milling around afterward. We hug, so Billy can take our picture. “I mean, seriously. Just be? You should write ads for Nike.”
“That was good stuff, I’ll have you know. Wisdom from the heart and all that.”
“So you’re going to be all relaxed about your purpose from now on, then?”
“Not relaxed, exactly. I’m trying to be Zen about it.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Hey.” She looks the tiniest bit offended. “You really didn’t like my speech? Because I kind of wrote it for you.”
“I know. I did like it. I just don’t have a lot of room for philosophy these days. I’m still doing the breathe in/breathe out thing.”
“Did you talk to Tucker yet?” she asks.
The girl sure knows how to spoil a good time.
“No.”
“Well, you’re about to,” she says, staring off over my shoulder. “I’ll catch you later.” Then she’s gone, lost in a sea of black and white gowns. I turn around to see Tucker standing right behind me. He looks uncomfortable.
“Hi, Carrots,” he says.
“Hi.”
“Some crazy thing, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“Graduation.” He gestures around us. “Finally blowing this Popsicle stand.”
“Oh. Yes. Crazy.”
His eyes narrow on my face. “Can we go outside for a minute and talk?” I follow him out the back, into the grassy area behind the school. It’s quieter here, but we can still hear the buzz of conversation from the gym. Tucker stuffs his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry. I was a jerk that day. I don’t know, I was surprised, and then I saw. .” He stops, takes a deep breath. “I think a caveman took over my body. I’m sorry,” he says again.
I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t involve me bursting into tears.
Tucker clears his throat. “How are you doing?”
“Right now? I’ve been better.”
“No I mean—” He sighs. “God, I’d forgotten how frustrating you can be.” It’s an insult, but it comes with a begrudging smile, the admiration in his eyes that sends me back to those days when we used to drive each other crazy.
“And I’d forgotten what a rude hick you can be,” I throw in for good measure.
“Ouch.” He shows his dimples this time. My heart aches, wanting to make everything better between us again. It must show on my face because his expression suddenly sobers. He steps closer to me, puts his hand on my arm.
“So I take it you’re still going to Stanford this fall?”
“Yep,” I say without enthusiasm. “Go Cardinals.”
“But you’re going to be around this summer, right?”
The look on his face is suddenly hopeful, and the summer we could have together unrolls itself in my mind, something like that magical time last summer when I was falling for Tucker hard, falling for Wyoming and all its wonders. I wish we could live it all over again, those lazy days fishing on the lake, hiking up into the mountains to pick huckleberries, swimming the Hoback River, rafting the Snake, marking each place with a kiss or a touch, making it ours. But this time I know it’s not meant to be. Because we can never go back.
I glance down at our feet, my strappy white sandals, Tucker’s boots. “No. Billy thought it would be a good idea if I got away this summer, you know, away from all the sad stuff.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” he says quietly.
“So I’m going to Italy with Angela.”
“When?”
“Monday.” As in, the day after tomorrow. I’ve already packed.
He nods like it’s something he should have expected. “Well. Maybe that’s for the best.” Silence.
“I’ll be back for a couple weeks right before school starts. You’ll be here then, right?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Okay.”
He looks up at me, his blue eyes so mournful it makes my heart feel like it’s being squeezed.
“How about tomorrow? Are you free?”
Sometimes the word free can have so many meanings.
“Um, sure.”
“Then pick me up tomorrow morning,” he says. “We’ll go out one last time.” Even now, I can’t say no to that.
Tucker decided it would be nice to take me to the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, not so grand as the real Grand Canyon, he said, but close. There’s a place where you can stand on the brink of a waterfall that he said I would love. (I did.) On the way home from the Lazy Dog, after dropping Tucker off, I have to stop and pull over. I want to go back, I want the afternoon to last forever, but all I have is the memory and already it’s fading. So I sit in my car on the side of the road and I remember him looking at me as we stood against the railing on the edge of the waterfall, the water casting rainbows in the air around us, and him saying, “Oh man, I want to kiss you,” and me saying, “Okay.”
Then he looked deep into my eyes, and put his lips on mine. It was the sweetest kind of kiss in the world, intense but undemanding, gentle. But it sent a roar of feeling through me louder than the torrent of water dropping away under our feet.
I opened my heart to his. I felt what he felt coursing through me. He loves me so much that this was killing him, the way this kiss felt like good-bye. He never wanted to let me go. He wanted to fight for me. Every part of him was telling him to fight, but he didn’t know how. He thought maybe the purest form of love is letting me go.
My own heart soared, feeling that, knowing that he still loves me, in spite of everything that’s happened. I struggled to hold the glory at bay, because it wanted to fill me, wanted to shine out with all that I was feeling in that moment.
Then, too soon, much too soon, he pulled away. Stepped back.
Wait, I wanted to tell him as he turned and walked back up the trail. Come back here.
And I could’ve convinced him, I think, not to let this be good-bye. I could’ve told him that I wanted him to fight for me. That I love him too. But something inside me was whispering that he was right, when yesterday he said this is for the best. Tucker deserves something better than I can give him. He deserves a regular human girl, one like Allison Lowell. He deserves happiness.
So I let him head off, and we drove back to his house in silence, trying to convince ourselves that we’re doing the right thing, for both of us.
Dad’s waiting for me on the front porch when I get home. He stands up as I pull into the driveway.
“Don’t get out,” he says. “There’s somewhere I’d like to go with you.” I slide back into my seat and unlock the door for him. He gets in on the passenger’s side and fastens his seat belt. I get this weird sensation like I’m back in Driver’s Ed, nervous, because I don’t know what he wants. All this mixed with his own special cocktail of joy.
“Okay, where to?” I ask.
“Let’s go toward town.”
“Okay.” I drive. I don’t know what to say to him. The last time I saw him was at graduation, but he didn’t stick around after. We didn’t get the chance to talk. And before that it was him sitting on Mom’s bed as she died. I have so many things swirling in my brain right now, questions, mostly, but it feels weird to ask.
Like: Is she okay? Where did she go, exactly? Were you with her this whole time? What’s it like, where sh
e is? Does she miss me? Can she hear me, if I try to talk to her? Is she watching over me?
I’m driving too slow. The car behind me honks, swerves to pass me, narrowly missing an oncoming car.
“Crazy California drivers,” I say, gesturing to the guy’s CA license plates before he screeches off. “Always in such a rush.”
When we get to town Dad has me turn off on the road to Grand Teton National Park. It’s a road I’ve been down a million times before with Tucker.
